


The Penance of a Killer

by DeathBelle



Series: The Loyalty of a Traitor [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Disfuguration, Explicit Sexual Content, Gang Violence, Graphic Descriptions of Injuries, Guns, M/M, Smoking, Spoilers for Loyalty of a Traitor, Yakuza Business, alcohol use, yakuza!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 15:13:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17748269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathBelle/pseuds/DeathBelle
Summary: It wasn't a surprise that things changed after the murders. It was unavoidable, considering Akaashi's crimes and Bokuto's punishment. They both survived, but it wasn't without newfound tension that bled between them like poison. Akaashi was alive, and although that was what mattered most, Bokuto didn't want to live this way. He wanted to return to a time before the incident, before he'd hurt the most important person in his life. He wanted to erase everything that had happened, to start fresh with a blank slate.But none of that was possible, so Bokuto would have to pick up whatever shattered pieces were left of them and do his best to fit them back together. It didn't matter how hard it was, or how much it hurt. He refused to live without Akaashi.





	The Penance of a Killer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnnaKanezawa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaKanezawa/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Anna!! This is your present from Ere. <3 Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> (This is a follow-up to Loyalty of a Traitor. It begins two weeks after the conclusion of the original story's present timeline. If you haven't read it, there will be serious spoilers here for the main story, and you will also be confused about what's happening now.)

Bokuto had known, within his first five minutes of waking up that morning, that he should have stayed in bed. He’d known, and he’d been stupid enough to get up anyway, and every passing hour since then made him regret that decision even more.

“Boss? You listening?”

Bokuto mumbled something under his breath.

“Hey.” A warm hand patted his shoulder. “Want another drink?”

That, at least, was something he could answer. “Yeah. Make it a double.”

Bokuto slouched onto the bar with his head in his hands, but he felt as Konoha walked away. It left a certain shift in the air, a nearby vacancy that Bokuto wasn’t used to. Even if Konoha wasn’t around, Bokuto was never alone. He always had someone with him, someone to give him advice, someone to pull him back when he got overexcited.

Someone who Bokuto had personally mutilated two weeks before.

“Here you go, boss.” 

There was the scrape of a glass sliding across the counter, and Bokuto emerged from his slump to take it. They were at the bar that Bokuto had bought when he’d first been appointed the leader of Fukurodani. Usually Bokuto would have stayed in his office upstairs, but he didn’t like it up there anymore. Not after what happened, and especially not when he was alone. It was nearly four a.m., which meant there were no customers around to bother him, or overhear the bad news that Konoha was delivering with a tactless lack of gentleness. Komi and Sarukui were off to the side, counting the night’s profit. Judging from the grim atmosphere between them, they’d already heard.

Sometimes Bokuto thought he was the last to know anything, even though he was supposed to be in charge.

“As I was saying,” continued Konoha, as Bokuto tipped back his drink, “the police raided our biggest operation in Akasaka-Mitsuke. They kicked the door in around midnight, so there was a pretty big crowd. They got all our guys, and a couple from Nekoma, too, who’d come over to place bets. They must've had a warrant, to just bust in like that. They got information somewhere from somebody. Maybe it was one of ours, maybe not.”

Bokuto finished his drink, pushed the empty glass away, and half-collapsed onto the bar again with a groan. “How much profit will we lose now that it’s been busted?”

He didn’t direct the question to anyone in particular, but Sarukui spoke up without prompting. He knew the most out of anyone about the syndicate’s finances. “About nine mill, if we don’t get a replacement ring up and running soon. Even then, we’ll take a hit. People will be too scared to join in for a while.”

Bokuto’s entire body felt heavy and viscous, as if he was nothing more than a heap of sludge. “Oh.”

“It’ll be alright, boss,” said Konoha. He refilled Bokuto’s glass without asking. “All our other rings are still up and running. Losing a little profit won’t cripple us.”

“What are we supposed to do, though?” said Bokuto, fumbling for the drink. “Do we open another ring close to the same place, or is it safer to move it? How do we find out where the information leak is? What should we _do_ about it?”

Konoha raised a brow as Bokuto threw back the fresh drink. “We’ll do whatever you tell us to do.”

Off to the side, Komi nodded in agreement. Sarukui was too busy counting out a stack of yen, his tongue poking between his lips. 

“Right,” said Bokuto. He stared at the bottom of his empty glass miserably. “I’ll, uh… I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think too long,” said Konoha. He plucked the glass from Bokuto’s hand, but didn’t refill it this time. He seemed to think Bokuto had drank enough. “We have to act soon, before it gets worse. The police are crawling around now. I saw some of them out front earlier, trying to look in the windows all casual-like. They know we’re running all the gambling rings, they just don’t have enough evidence to prove it. But if they bust any more of them, there’s a chance they’ll find it.”

Bokuto had a flash of memory; handcuffs chewing into his wrists, a bruising grip on his arm, the spike of pain in his head when it cracked against the roof of a police car. That had been years ago, and he’d gotten out of it clean – thanks to Kuroo’s timely intervention – but he did not want to repeat that experience. 

“I’ll figure it out,” said Bokuto. He tried to sound confident, but his voice wouldn’t cooperate. It came out as flat and dejected as he felt. “I’m gonna head out. We’ll have a meeting tomorrow and talk about it.”

“Alright. Have a good night, boss.”

It wasn’t nighttime anymore, and there was nothing good about anything in Bokuto’s life just then, but he didn’t say that. He kept his mouth shut and dragged his feet to the door, offering Komi and Sarukui a limp wave before stepping out onto the street. 

It was cold. Bokuto realized that, but in a vague sort of way. He didn’t give it much thought. It didn’t seem important.

Bokuto’s apartment was only a couple of blocks away from the bar. He’d chosen it specifically for that reason, and Kuroo had pulled some strings to make sure he’d gotten the penthouse suite.

Well, that’s what Bokuto called it, anyway. It was the apartment on the top level, but it was nearly identical to every other unit in the building. The only difference was the windows. They stretched across the entire eastern wall, giving Bokuto a perfect view of the sun rising over the city on the rare occasion that he was awake before dawn.

Or, on nights like tonight, when he hadn’t gotten any sleep before dawn.

He rode the elevator up, watching the tick of lights as it made the steady ascent. Instead of going to the top floor, he stepped off at the one below it. He ignored the numbered doors as he walked, because he didn’t need to check them. He’d been there so many times that his feet could have carried him to the right apartment on autopilot.

He approached the door labeled 1511 and stopped with a raised fist. He’d been on the verge of knocking, but reminded himself it was after four a.m. No one was awake at that hour. 

Bokuto pressed his ear against the door and closed his eyes to listen. There was a low murmur from beyond, and though he couldn’t make out the voices, he thought it sounded like the background noise of a television. 

He hesitated, walked away a few times before turning right back, and finally tapped on the door, quietly. There was no noise from beyond so he tapped again, just a little louder.

A minute passed, and Bokuto counted his breaths – sixteen, seventeen, eighteen – until there was the scratch of a chain lock and the door cracked open. An eye appeared, and though Bokuto knew it would have been blue in the light, it was dull and gray as it looked at him, paired with a dark ring resting beneath it like a half-moon. 

“Bokuto-san, do you know what time it is?”

“Yeah, I, uh… Were you sleeping?”

The weariness on Akaashi’s face answered that question before he’d even spoken. “No. I wasn’t.”

“Can I come in for a minute?”

Akaashi sighed, but let the door swing open. He drifted back toward the couch, and Bokuto saw he’d been right about the source of the low noise. The apartment would have been pitch black if it hadn’t been for the flash of the tv screen. Bokuto’s place was never really dark, because he kept his windows bare to let in the glow of the city lights. All of Akaashi’s windows were covered by dark curtains.

Bokuto left his shoes on the mat and locked both the deadbolt and the chain latch. He shrugged off his coat and left it by the door too, on the empty rack. Akaashi glanced at the guns strapped to either side of Bokuto’s chest, but his expression didn’t change.

“Can I sit down?”

“As if you have to ask, Bokuto-san.”

That was the problem, though. Bokuto did need to ask, because things with Akaashi weren’t the same anymore.

Bokuto sat gingerly on one end of the couch, hands tucked between his knees. He watched Akaashi from the corner of his eye, waiting for even the slightest indication that Akaashi didn’t want him there.

But Akaashi was as impassive as ever, and Bokuto settled back.

“What’re you watching?” asked Bokuto, when the silence became too strained.

“A documentary,” said Akaashi blandly, “about the Asanuma Inejiro assassination.”

Bokuto glanced back toward the screen, which displayed a reel of black and white photographs. “Oh. Okay.” A few more minutes slipped by, and Bokuto became extremely aware of the tension between them. “Are you okay, Akaashi?”

“Of course, Bokuto-san.” His voice was flat, inflectionless. Even before the incident, he’d never been overly expressive. Still, there had been something there, in the flash of his eyes or the occasional twitch of his mouth. Now he was empty, and it made Bokuto feel hollow.

“Have you slept at all?” said Bokuto, just to keep Akaashi talking. 

“Not recently.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not tired,” said Akaashi.

Bokuto had never seen anyone who looked more exhausted. “I can make some tea, if you want. It helps me sleep sometimes.”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“Yeah, I know, but I want to.” Bokuto stood, paused to see if Akaashi would stop him, and crossed onto the tile floor of the small kitchen. It was too dark for him to see what he was doing, and he didn’t want to turn on a light and bother Akaashi, so he used the glow of his phone screen to navigate. It made everything more difficult, and he spilled more than a little hot water across Akaashi’s countertop, but finally he made it back to the couch with a pair of glass mugs. He passed one to Akaashi, who accepted it with more than a little difficulty. Bokuto sat back again and tried his best not to stare.

It was impossible.

Akaashi’s hands were wrapped in bundles of gauze, like demented mittens. It was obvious even with the bandages that he was disfigured. The shape of his right hand was _wrong_ , so clearly distorted that it made Bokuto’s stomach churn. The left one was a little better, because most of those fingers were still attached, but it was still gut-wrenching. Bokuto couldn’t believe this had happened. He couldn’t believe he’d been the one to do it.

“Bokuto-san, please stop.”

Bokuto pulled his stare away to find Akaashi watching him with a slight frown. “Sorry.” He lowered his head and blew on his steaming tea, regret crushing him from the inside out.

“I don’t mean the staring.” Akaashi raised his mug and took a sip. His right hand was useful only for keeping it steady; with just a thumb and a forefinger left, his ability to grip had been largely severed. “Stop wallowing in unfounded guilt. I have told you repeatedly that this wasn’t your fault.”

“But I-”

“If you don’t stop, I will ask you to leave.”

Bokuto fell silent, sagging down into a slump. He kept the mug cradled in his hands but didn’t drink anymore. He’d only made himself a cup so Akaashi would be more inclined to have some. 

When Akaashi had first been assigned as Bokuto’s advisor, courtesy of Kuroo, they’d had awkward silences like this. Bokuto hadn’t known how to talk to him, because Akaashi was the least expressive person he’d ever met. It took months before he stopped getting nervous just from entering the same room, and a solid year before he was completely at ease when they were alone. It had taken a lot of work to win Akaashi over, to build a successful working relationship with him, and now it was like they were strangers all over again.

Bokuto couldn’t live like this.

“There’s a meeting tomorrow,” said Bokuto, staring into his tea. “The police busted one of our rings in Akasaka-Mitsuke.”

“I know. Konoha-san called earlier.”

So even Akaashi, who hadn’t left his apartment in two weeks, had known about this before Bokuto. Somehow that wasn’t surprising. “I need you to come with me.”

“No, Bokuto-san.”

“But Akaashi-”

“I can’t.” Akaashi sat forward to place his tea on the coffee table. His cellphone was at the corner, within easy reach. That meant he’d been ignoring Bokuto’s texts on purpose. “My role as your advisor is over. It has to be. If I’m seen with you like this-” he held up his hands, as if Bokuto could have mistaken what he meant- “it will destroy your reputation. No one will respect a _Kumicho_ who keeps someone like me around. I made this sacrifice to uphold your reputation, and that of Fukurodani. I will not be responsible for dragging it down again.”

“But I need-”

“No.”

Bokuto wanted to cry. He wanted to curl up in a ball in the darkest corner of his apartment and sob, because _this wasn’t fair_. He didn’t deserve this, and Akaashi definitely didn’t deserve this. What Akaashi had done was wrong. Bokuto knew that, and he understood that some sort of consequence had been necessary, but _this_ … 

He glanced at Akaashi’s wrapped hands again.

Akaashi hadn’t deserved this, and Bokuto hated himself for doing it.

“I’m sorry,” said Bokuto.

“Bokuto-san, I already told you-”

“Not for that,” said Bokuto, even though he would certainly be sorry for that until the day he died. “I’m sorry for what I’m about to do.” He took a breath, held it, and said, “You’ll come to the meeting tomorrow. I don’t know what to do, Akaashi. I have no idea, and I don’t trust anyone else to tell me. I need you there.”

“I already said-”

“I’m not asking.” Bokuto didn’t like acting this way, especially not with Akaashi, but he didn’t see any other options. “You’ll be at the meeting. No excuses. That’s an order.”

The way Akaashi looked at him made Bokuto want to collapse onto his knees and take it back, to beg Akaashi to forgive him. But he bit his tongue and held onto his resolve, until Akaashi dropped his gaze. 

“Alright,” said Akaashi. His voice was so quiet that Bokuto barely heard it. “I’ll be there, _Kumicho_.”

That was like a kick in the gut. Akaashi had never called him by his title, only by his name. 

“If you don’t mind,” said Akaashi flatly, “I would like to get some rest.”

Bokuto’s heart sank. “Right. Sure.” He rose from the couch, completely disregarding the still-full mug of tea he’d put aside. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“I suppose you will, since you left me without a choice.”

That stung, and Bokuto turned away to hide a wince. He went to the door, redressed in his coat and his shoes, and said, “Goodnight, Akaashi.”

Akaashi didn’t answer, and Bokuto went up to his own apartment, bereft. He watched the sun rise through the wide sweep of windows, and didn’t sleep at all.

  
  
  
  
  
The highest tier of Fukurodani met at two the following afternoon. The bar opened at three, so their privacy was guaranteed. They gathered at one long table with Bokuto seated at the end, his eyes stuck to the door.

“I hacked into the police database,” said Komi, “and they-”

Bokuto held up a hand. “Wait until everyone is here.”

Komi blinked and glanced around the table. The chairs were all filled, except the one directly to Bokuto’s right. It had remained empty since the incident, because Bokuto hadn’t appointed anyone to take Akaashi’s place. 

He knew they were all waiting for it to happen. Of course he knew. 

They would just have to keep waiting.

The front door opened with a gust of wind that curled through the bar with airy fingers. Akaashi stepped inside, and though he appeared as composed as ever, he didn’t make direct eye contact with any of them as he approached the table. He stopped in front of the vacant chair beside Bokuto and hesitated. “May I sit?”

“Of course,” said Bokuto.

Rather than reach for the chair, Akaashi tucked a foot behind one of the wooden legs and eased it back. He sat and placed his hands in his lap, but not before Bokuto had noticed his gloves. They made the disfiguration less noticeable, but if anyone spared a second glance, they would see the drooping, empty parts of them.

Everyone stared at Akaashi, but Bokuto cleared his throat and reclaimed their attention. “Go ahead, Komi.”

Komi nodded. “Right. Well, the police notes said…”

They talked for a while, about the bust and about the fallout. Most of the men who had been arrested were under Washio’s supervision, because he was in charge of the operations in the Akasaka-Mitsuke district. He didn’t suspect any of his men of leaking the information, but judging from what Komi had discovered, that seemed to be the only logical conclusion.

“That’s what it said,” confirmed Komi, responding to another of Washio’s questions. “They were working with an informant. That’s how they knew where to find it, and how they got a warrant. He went in with a wire and it picked up enough for the police to be sure it was illegal gambling.”

Washio was intimidating at the best of times, but now his face was downright terrifying. “My men work all of the rings in Akasaka-Mitsuke. If there’s a rat, he could sell out any of the rings, or any of his associates. Myself included.”

“The men who were arrested won’t talk,” said Konoha. He had one elbow propped on the table, chin resting in his palm. “They’re not that stupid. Now that they’re in custody, they know we’d know. We have to find a way to get them out, though, if possible. It’ll be tough.”

“That isn’t as important as finding who’s responsible,” said Washio. “My men know the risks of running their business, so if they are caught, they are willing to pay the price. The informant, however, will not get by with this.”

“Assuming we can even figure out who it was,” said Komi. “How many men work under you, Washio? Two-hundred? More? It might not even be one of yours. It could be anyone in Fukurodani, or even someone outside of it. Nekoma hangs out there a lot. One of them could’ve sold us out, since we’re a different syndicate.”

“What are we supposed to do, then?” said Konoha, his eyes sliding to Bokuto. The rest of them followed his example, attention shifting to the head of the table.

Bokuto hadn’t spoken since the meeting had started. He’d listened to the information Komi had gathered and tried to put together a plan.

But he’d come up short, because no matter how hard he tried to be a good leader or how often Kuroo told him he was doing okay, he’d never felt he was cut out for this job.

“May I make a suggestion?”

Everyone’s attention shifted again, boring into Akaashi. 

“You don’t have to ask,” said Bokuto. He spoke quietly, but it was dead silent in the bar. Everyone else must have heard. “You belong here just as much as anyone, ‘Kaashi.”

The way Akaashi frowned suggested he disagreed, but he didn’t argue. He raised his head, still keeping his eyes averted, and said, “Komi-san, can you acquire a list of all the men arrested from the Akasaka-Mitsuke ring?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“They are the only ones whose innocence we can assume. Washio-san, you will need to write down the names of your men who attend that ring the most regularly. If any of them coincide with the arrest list, mark them off. If not, they should be suspected of working with the police. I would advise that you visit the highest ranking of your arrested men at the jail and ask if anyone has displayed any suspicious behavior lately. Perhaps he can give you an idea of where to start. If the men on your list are common participants of the Akasaka-Mitsuke ring, we must ask them for the reason they were not in attendance the night of the raid. If they do not have a good excuse, we will look into them more closely.” Akaashi glanced at Bokuto for only a fleeting second before again looking away. “You may want to contact Kuroo-san and ask if he knows which of his men go there most often. I’m sure he will be happy to accommodate, considering Nekoma was caught up in the arrests, as well.”

Bokuto exhaled, slowly, as relief swallowed him. It didn’t matter if Bokuto ran Fukurodani for five years, or ten, or even twenty. He would never have the same strategic outlook as Akaashi. It was unrivaled, and Bokuto was lucky to have him around.

Bokuto realized everyone at the table was watching him. “Why’re you looking at me like that?” he said, waving them off. “You heard him. Do it.” They dispersed, and Bokuto rose from his seat. “Come upstairs with me, ‘Kaashi. I’ll call Kuroo.”

“Do you really need me for-”

“Yes.” His tone left no room for argument, and Akaashi trailed after him to the office. 

Bokuto remembered when the two of them had spent hours at a time up there, watching games on the widescreen, putting together strategies to increase their profits, and sometimes talking about nothing important at all. Those were Bokuto’s favorite times, when they would sit on the leather couch beneath the window, the smell of cigarettes weaving through their voices as Akaashi smoked his way through half a pack. 

Once he’d become familiar with Akaashi’s mannerisms, Bokuto had privately declared Akaashi one of his favorite people. He wasn’t social like Bokuto was, and he didn’t like to go out and have fun the same way Kuroo did. But he was smart, and observant, and even if Bokuto made a mistake, Akaashi had never criticized him for it. Maybe that was only because Bokuto was in charge, but he doubted it. Akaashi had certainly never been too shy to spare some snide comments for Kuroo whenever the occasion arose.

Bokuto liked many things about Akaashi, and he just hoped he could get all of those things back after what had happened.

Bokuto skirted around the middle of the floor as he crossed the office. The bloody evidence had been scrubbed away, courtesy of Komi and Yaku, but he still thought about it every time he entered the room. It was impossible not to. He checked over his shoulder, but Akaashi didn’t seem bothered. He paced calmly over to the couch and took his seat on the far end, as usual. 

Bokuto called Kuroo and stood at the window while they talked, staring down at the street beyond. A street vendor had set up a cart on the corner, and there was a short line of people in queue. A restaurant several storefronts past that had been shut down for a health code violation, and there was still a bright yellow sign plastered to their front door. 

Even further, at the very end of the street, was a stationary police car. They were watching the bar, waiting for something suspicious. Bokuto wondered exactly what the informant had said about Fukurodani.

“Yeah, I can do that,” said Kuroo. There was noise in the background, layered voices that blended into static. “I’ll ask around, see who hangs out over there.”

“Thanks, Kuroo. Let me know if you find out anything.”

“’Course.” There was a pause, and the noise went lower, as if Kuroo had stepped away. “This sounds like an Akaashi plan. He back on the payroll?”

Bokuto glanced over his shoulder. Akaashi was staring out the side window, his face blank. “He was never off of it.”

“I’ll be in touch,” said Kuroo. “Take care of yourself, Bo.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Bokuto ended the call, and paced over to the couch. Akaashi didn’t look at him. “Kuroo said he’ll look into it.”

Akaashi said nothing.

Bokuto eyed the lines of Akaashi’s face, lingering on the dark circles beneath his eyes. “Thanks for coming to the meeting.”

“You didn’t give me a choice.”

“I needed you.” Bokuto knew it was a weak thing to say, for someone in his position, but it was true. He’d always needed Akaashi. He was the only reason Fukurodani was still afloat. “I don’t know what I would’ve done, if you weren’t here. I didn’t know what to say to the guys.”

“You should have more faith in yourself, Bokuto-san.”

“No, I should have you with me,” said Bokuto. “All the time, like you’ve always been.”

“It’s different now.”

“No, it’s not.” Bokuto bent one knee and swiveled on the couch to face Akaashi, curling his hands together to resist the urge to reach for him. “Nothing’s different. Not between you and me, and not between you and Fukurodani. You’re the only reason we’ve made it this far, ‘Kaash. I can’t do this, any of it, without you.”

“You are perfectly capable, Bokuto-san.”

“No, I’m not. You know I’m not.” He almost rested a hand on Akaashi’s leg but pulled back at the last second. “You’ve gotta stay with me, Akaashi. Please.”

“I suppose you can order me to do whatever you’d like,” said Akaashi drily.

“Stop it.” This time Bokuto did touch him, his grip squeezing gently around Akaashi’s knee. “If you say you want out and you really mean it, you know I’d let you go. You mean more to me than anybody. If you don’t want to be here anymore… I mean, if leaving Fukurodani is what you want-”

“Of course I don’t want that.” Akaashi’s face shifted, brows knitting together just slightly. It was as close to a scowl as Akaashi usually got, and although that wasn’t ideal, it was better than the vacant stare. “I pledged to live and die for Nekoma years ago, and when Kuroo asked me to devote myself to Fukurodani instead, I made the same vow. I am yakuza through and through, Bokuto-san. I only think it is in your best interest if I am not seen with you. I will help you from behind the scenes. I will give you any advice that I can. But having me here, among your best men, is an embarrassment for you.”

“You _are_ one of my best men,” said Bokuto. “You’re the best out of all of them.”

“I betrayed you.”

“You did it for Fukurodani.” Bokuto had been devastated by all of this two weeks before, but since then he’d realized the murders weren’t nearly as important as Akaashi himself. Of course Bokuto didn’t want any of those people dead, but it was already done, and it was no good for anyone if Akaashi joined them. “That’s your job. I wish… I wish it could have gone differently. I should’ve listened when you told me to take those guys more seriously, I should’ve done something about it instead of-”

“If you try and shoulder all the blame yourself,” said Akaashi, “I truly will leave.”

The words died on Bokuto’s tongue. He sat back with a sigh, resting his head on the back of the couch to stare up at the ceiling. It was stained from years of cigarette smoke. “Sorry, ‘Kaashi.”

Time stretched between them. It wasn’t companionable and comfortable, like all of the other times. There was still too much tension, so much that it felt toxic.

Bokuto rolled his head to the side. Akaashi was still looking out the window. “I want you with me, Akaashi. I can’t do my job without you. I don’t care if people think I’m weak for keeping you around. They can think that if they want. I’ll prove them wrong. Fukurodani isn’t weak, especially not when I have you here.”

Akaashi closed his eyes. His face was perfectly smooth, dark hair curling over his forehead. “I will do anything in my power to help you, Bokuto-san. You know that.”

“Then stay with me. Always stay with me.”

Akaashi opened his eyes, slowly. They were blue here, with the sunlight streaming through the windows. A dark blue, like a clear night sky, or like an ocean trench. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s what I want.” It would always be what he wanted, no matter how many years or crises passed. Bokuto breathed a sigh that tasted of relief and hauled himself off the couch. “I need a smoke. Want one?”

“More than you could imagine.”

Bokuto offered him a half-smile. It was tentative, uncertain, and though Akaashi didn’t smile back, Bokuto thought his face seemed softer. Bokuto found a spare pack of cigarettes on the corner table and carried them back over, tapping out a pair. Bokuto didn’t often smoke, but he’d been crushed beneath so much stress that he thought a little dose of nicotine might do him some good. He passed one to Akaashi and lit his own, exhaling a breath of smoky bliss.

“I can’t light it myself,” said Akaashi, when Bokuto tried to pass him the lighter. “My hands shake too badly.”

“Here, I’ve got it.” Bokuto flicked the flame to life and reached over, igniting the end of the cigarette tucked between Akaashi’s lips. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fine.” Akaashi fumbled with his left glove, failed to remove it, and resorted to tucking it against his side and using his elbow for leverage to slip out of it. The left was the hand that was mostly in one piece, and Akaashi used it to pluck the cigarette from between his lips as he exhaled out the open window. 

Bokuto’s eyes were drawn to the bandages, and he realized Akaashi had been serious. The tremble of his fingers was severe.

“I was told that it may go away,” said Akaashi. “The shaking. Or it could be permanent. It’s impossible to know for sure.”

Bokuto swallowed back his apology. He’d offered enough of those to last two lifetimes, and Akaashi had made it quite clear that he was tired of hearing them. “It’ll go away,” said Bokuto. 

Akaashi took another drag of his cigarette and said nothing. 

They whiled away the better part of the afternoon. By the time Bokuto peeled himself off of the couch again, he could hear the distant sounds of the bar below, now open for business. 

“I’m going home,” said Bokuto. “There’s no point staying. I can check in with Washio and Komi tomorrow and see what they know. Do you want to walk together?”

“Sure.” Akaashi put out his sixth cigarette and grabbed for his discarded glove.

“Here, let me.” Bokuto reached for it, and after a tense hesitation, Akaashi gave it to him. Bokuto slipped the glove onto Akaashi’s hand carefully, tugging it gently around his wrist. Akaashi flexed his remaining fingers once it was on and gave a slight wince. “Sorry. Is it okay?”

“It’s fine.” He stood and waited for Bokuto to leave the office first, but Bokuto didn’t move.

“Akaashi?”

“Yes?”

“Do you…” Bokuto faltered. He shouldn’t ask. Akaashi probably didn’t want to spend any more time with him than was necessary, not after what Bokuto had done to him. Bokuto should give him space. He knew that, but couldn’t stop himself from blurting, “Do you want to stay with me tonight? I sleep better when you’re there and you… you need some sleep too, you look really tired.”

Akaashi considered him, mouth tilted downward. It was impossible to know what he was thinking. It had always been that way, but Bokuto had learned enough about him to guess correctly most of the time, despite the lack of visual cues. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Akaashi breathed a sigh. “Sure, Bokuto-san. I’ll stay with you.”

“You don’t have to,” said Bokuto immediately. “If you’d be more comfortable at your place by yourself then that’s okay, I was just-”

“I’ll stay with you,” repeated Akaashi. “Let’s go.”

Bokuto swallowed back his words and nodded, hope swelling tentatively in his chest. Maybe they could move past this, after all.

  
  
  
  
  
When Bokuto stepped out of the shower, he felt as if two weeks’ worth of stress had been melted off of his shoulders. He’d stood under the hot water for far too long, soaking in the heat, letting his tense muscles unravel. 

The information leak was a pressing issue, one that he needed to figure out quickly. Maybe he should have been worried about that, but there was no point. There was a plan, and his men were working on it. There was nothing more he could do for now. 

That was how Bokuto had always operated. Stress over any given situation would eat him alive, as long as he was burdened with making a decision. Once that decision was made, and action was taken, he could shrug it off until another issue demanded his attention. 

The leak wasn’t his top priority anyway, although it should have been. It was a relief to take action on that front, but it was more of a relief to know that Akaashi was in Bokuto’s apartment of his own free will. That meant that maybe, just maybe, Akaashi didn’t hate him.

Bokuto left the steamy warmth of the bathroom with a shiver. Normally he would have crawled into bed just like that, bare skin against silk sheets. Even before, when Akaashi stayed over, he’d done the same.

But things weren’t the same now, and he wasn’t quite sure where the two of them stood. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants that rode low on his hips and padded out to the living room, where Akaashi sat on the couch right where Bokuto had left him.

“I’m finished with the shower,” said Bokuto, as he brushed damp hair away from his forehead. “You can use it if you want.”

Akaashi didn’t answer, didn’t move. Bokuto crept closer, edging around the corner of the couch.

Akaashi twitched and blinked up at him, eyes heavy. 

“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t know you were asleep,” said Bokuto, retreating. “I didn’t mean to bother you, I just-”

“It’s fine, Bokuto-san. I didn’t mean to doze off.” Akaashi shook his head as if shaking away his weariness. He rose from the couch and shrugged off his jacket. He hadn’t removed it when they’d arrived, and Bokuto only now realized that Akaashi wasn’t wearing his guns.

If Bokuto had taken a second to think about that, he would have understood why. But his mouth ran faster than his brain, and he blurted, “Why didn’t you wear your guns to the meeting?”

Akaashi looked at him, and though his face was impassive, Bokuto still felt as if that stare was drilling right through him.

“…oh.” Bokuto pushed a hand through his damp hair, eyes drifting to the side. “Nevermind. I’m sorry, ‘Kaashi.”

“Please stop apologizing for everything you say.” Akaashi brushed past, tugging at the buttons of his shirt with his left hand. “It’s unbecoming.”

Bokuto nearly apologized for that too, but bit back the words just in time. He watched Akaashi disappear through the bedroom door before slumping onto the couch where Akaashi had been sitting. The spot was still warm from Akaashi’s body heat.

Bokuto had offered to let Akaashi shower first. He’d declined, which was expected, but disappointing. If Akaashi had gone first, he could have already been crawling into bed right now, and he clearly needed some sleep.

Bokuto needed some sleep too, but that was of secondary importance.

Akaashi had been watching some sort of crime documentary. They could never agree on anything to watch. In the past, they’d resorted flipping a coin to make the decision for them. Akaashi had won most of the time, and Bokuto always complained, but he didn’t mind, not really. He liked the way Akaashi almost smiled as he settled in to watch whatever boring series he’d chosen for the evening. They’d spent many of their nights like that, in the past. 

Bokuto wondered if he would be lucky enough to experience that again.

By the time Akaashi emerged from the shower, Bokuto had nearly followed his previous example. His eyes were so heavy that he barely levered them open at the sound of quiet footsteps. 

Akaashi paused behind the couch, hands behind his back, dressed in a pair of borrowed sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt that Bokuto had owned since high school. His hair was still wet, and it looked even darker than usual stuck to his pale forehead.

“Bokuto-san?”

“Yeah?”

“May I ask for assistance?

Whatever lingering dregs of sleep that weighed down Bokuto’s eyes were banished immediately. He sat up straight, hyper-focused on Akaashi. “Of course. Anything you need.”

Akaashi’s stare skittered to the side. A crease dug into his brow as he said, “Could you help me wrap my hands? Typically I have Konoha-san come upstairs and do it but since you’re here…”

Bokuto was _not_ jealous that Akaashi had trusted Konoha with this. Of course he wasn’t. Konoha and Akaashi had always gotten along, and it made sense that Akaashi would ask him for help, especially since Bokuto was the one who-

“If you would rather not, I understand,” said Akaashi.

Bokuto realized he’d taken far too long to answer. 

“No!” said Bokuto, scrambling to his feet. “Of course I’ll help you. I’d do anything for you, ‘Kaashi.”

“Should I go downstairs for supplies?” asked Akaashi, still studying the wall rather than Bokuto.

“No, I have stuff. You can use any of it.” Bokuto circled the couch and headed toward the bathroom, checking over his shoulder to confirm Akaashi was following. He pulled open the cabinet behind the mirror and sorted through a tangle of supplies. Most of it had been used, at least a little. Bokuto didn’t get in many physical brawls anymore, but when he’d worked for Kuroo, he’d been busted up all the time. It had mostly been his hands, because he’d frequently split his knuckles open on peoples’ jaws.

“Do you need disinfectant?” asked Bokuto, sifting through the bottles.

“That isn’t necessary. I only need them wrapped.”

“Okay.” Bokuto chose the thickest roll of gauze from the top shelf and froze, arm still extended, breath caught in his throat.

A gentle touch trailed along the planes of his back, almost certainly tracing the feathers inked across his shoulders.

Akaashi hadn’t touched him in two weeks.

“I still think getting an owl was ridiculous,” said Akaashi, his voice a low murmur. His touch disappeared, and Bokuto ached in its absence. “Yet somehow it does suit you.”

Bokuto swallowed and shut the cabinet. “Sounds like you’re saying I’m ridiculous, then.”

“You are,” said Akaashi. “Not in a bad way.”

Bokuto exhaled a breath that was sheer relief. He turned to face Akaashi, who still refused to look directly at him. “I’ll take it as a compliment, then.” He unwound the gauze, testing its pliability. “So you want me to…?”

Akaashi seemed to brace himself. There was unmistakable tension in his shoulders, reflecting the strain that painted the deep crease across his forehead. Slowly, he removed his left hand from behind his back and offered it silently, palm-up. 

A dull throb of guilt pulsed in Bokuto’s gut. Akaashi’s pinky was gone, a ragged lump of flesh left behind. It was mostly healed, but looked tender. 

Bokuto bit his lip as he wrapped the gauze around the side of Akaashi’s hand, looping it several times, tying it off around his wrist for support. “That okay?”

“It’s fine,” said Akaashi. He flexed his remaining fingers before letting them fall to his side. He hesitated, the other hand still held behind his back. “You are not allowed to feel guilty, Bokuto-san. You did what was necessary. I would be dead if it wasn’t for you.”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“You don’t have to.” Akaashi kept his eyes low, more at the level of Bokuto’s chest than his face, as he slowly offered his right hand.

The little twist of guilt that Bokuto had felt before was nothing compared to how he felt now. It was a hot flash of shame, scalding Bokuto down to his very core. He felt nauseous, not because he was disgusted with Akaashi, but because he was disgusted with himself. He couldn’t believe he’d actually done this. This was terrible. This was _inhumane_. And he’d done it to Akaashi, of all people. Akaashi meant more to him than anyone else in Fukurodani, in Tokyo, in the whole world. He would’ve done anything for Akaashi. He would have died for him.

And yet he’d still done _this_ to him.

“What did I just say, Bokuto-san?”

Bokuto didn’t trust himself to speak. The emotions were too thick in his throat, rising higher, threatening to overwhelm him. He simply shook his head and unraveled another length of gauze, swallowing hard as he reached for Akaashi’s hand.

There wasn’t much left.

His thumb and forefinger were still intact, and that was the extent of it. The remaining knuckles were misshapen, raw from barely healed wounds. Akaashi offered it palm-up, like the other, and the shaking was so bad that Bokuto cupped Akaashi’s hand in his own to steady it.

“Akaashi…”

“Don’t, Bokuto-san. One word about it and I’ll leave.”

Bokuto blinked a few times, fighting back the emotions that were still piling higher. He took a deep breath that was still warm from the shower steam and wound the gauze around Akaashi’s hand gently, layering extra over the raw edges.

“Wrap it around my thumb or it won’t stay. Yes, like that.” Akaashi studied Bokuto’s handiwork as he secured the end of the gauze. Maybe he was inspecting it for durability, but most likely he was just using it as another reason to avoid looking at Bokuto. He was doing too much of that, and it made Bokuto feel small.

“’Kaashi?”

“Yes?” His head was still down.

Bokuto reached out, hesitated when his hand was a breath away from Akaashi’s face. Akaashi went completely still but didn’t protest as Bokuto touched his jaw. “Please look at me.”

Akaashi raised his face, slowly. His eyes were blue under the bright lights of the bathroom. Not the same blue as they were in sunlight, but a different shade, a little clearer. 

“You don’t look at me anymore,” said Bokuto. He always spoke loud, but like this, when it was just the two of them, he was quieter. Akaashi liked the quiet. “You don’t have to be here, ‘Kaashi. I told you that.”

“That isn’t it.” Akaashi glanced away, seemed to realize what he’d done, and forced his stare back to Bokuto. “I don’t want to see you look at me as if I’m someone to pity. That’s how the others think of me. It’s reflected in their eyes, every time they look at me. They think I’m less, that I’ve been crippled. Perhaps I have, but it isn’t something I want pity for. I made my decisions and I don’t regret them. I don’t want sympathy from them, and especially not from you. I want you to look at me the way you’ve always looked at me, Bokuto-san. Not like I’m useless.”

“You’re not useless. You’ll never be useless.” Bokuto didn’t like the way that word sounded in Akaashi’s voice, like it was something he’d been thinking about during those long days locked in his dark apartment. “Not to me. Not ever. I need you, ‘Kaashi. I need you just the way you are.” He took a half-step closer, but made himself stop. He took a breath, brushed a thumb along Akaashi’s jaw, and said, “I love you just like you are. No matter what happens. You know that.”

Akaashi’s eyes fell closed. The crease across his brow cut deeper, a solid ridge that visibly aged him. "Even after what I did?" 

"No matter what," repeated Bokuto, voice low. "I didn't stop loving you because of that. I never will."

Akaashi exhaled, and when he opened his eyes again, that crease disappeared. “Show me, then.”

Bokuto’s gut clenched. “Are you sure?”

Akaashi didn’t answer; not with words, not immediately. He pressed one of his gauzed hands against Bokuto’s, pinning it against his face, and moved closer. He tilted his face up, breath grazing across Bokuto’s lips. “Yes, Bokuto-san. I’m sure.”

Bokuto took a few lingering seconds to appreciate the texture of Akaashi’s skin beneath his palm, the taste of his breath, the bone-deep relief of having him this close again.

Bokuto had been convinced that Akaashi wouldn’t want to be near him anymore. He should want to be as far away from Bokuto as possible, after what he’d done. The thought of that had caused Bokuto physical pain, but he’d accepted it. He wouldn’t push Akaashi for his own sake, wouldn’t make him uncomfortable for any reason.

But Akaashi didn’t look uncomfortable. He looked the same as he always had, in the quick heartbeats right before a kiss. His eyes were half-closed, a slice of blue peeking from beneath heavy lashes, the lines of his face relaxed.

“Keiji.” Bokuto whispered it against Akaashi’s mouth, cherishing the way it tasted. He’d been certain he wouldn’t have the luxury of using that name again.

When they kissed, it was like the trauma of two weeks before had never happened. The perfect way their lips fit together felt the same as always. It felt like nights of cigarettes and long conversations, like stolen affection during tedious documentaries, like shared warmth in a set of silk sheets.

It felt like everything Bokuto had missed over the past two weeks, everything he’d learned to love over the past couple of years. 

Akaashi curled a finger in the edge of Bokuto’s sweatpants, tugging them down at one side. “I don’t have much patience tonight, Bokuto-san.”

“Okay,” said Bokuto. He took one more taste of Akaashi’s mouth, savored it. “Okay.”

Bokuto didn’t have much patience either, not when they’d spent too much time apart.

They were cradled in silk sheets only minutes later, bare skin against bare skin. Akaashi’s was soft as Bokuto kissed his way from Akaashi’s mouth, down his neck, and back up again. Akaashi was quiet, as always, the hitch in his breath the only reaction to the press of Bokuto’s fingers. 

“I’ve missed you,” said Bokuto. He kept his voice to a whisper, low and intimate. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“It hasn’t been that long, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi’s voice was a little breathy, but still calm. Only the spill of a blush across his chest suggested he was just as affected as Bokuto. 

“A day would be too long,” said Bokuto. He kissed Akaashi’s throat, then his collarbone. “An hour. Anytime is too long.”

“You’re ridiculous,” said Akaashi. It could have been taken as an insult, in another situation. But Akaashi’s voice was quiet, fond, and his left hand smoothed up Bokuto’s back to rest at his shoulder. 

“I love you, Keiji.”

Akaashi sighed, back arching as Bokuto’s fingers sank deeper. A few seconds passed, then a few more, before he whispered, “I love you too, Koutarou.”

Akaashi didn’t say Bokuto’s name very often. It was a rare thing, made more beautiful by its elusiveness. 

But every time he did, Bokuto fell in love all over again.

“Keiji.” Bokuto breathed the name into Akaashi’s skin, repeated it like a prayer. “ _Keiji_.”

Bokuto kissed him, and anything that had happened in the past, between the two of them or with Fukurodani, didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, when they were together like this. They were the only two people left in the world, and it could have burned down around them, and still Bokuto would have been at peace.

Minutes slipped by in a satisfying haze. When Bokuto pushed into Akaashi, his hips rolling forward with restrained caution, he felt as if he was complete for the first time in a while.

Akaashi gasped in Bokuto’s ear, gripped the broad span of Bokuto’s back with one grasping hand. Before Bokuto could even ask, Akaashi said, “It’s fine. It’s good. Please continue.”

Bokuto huffed a breath against Akaashi’s jaw that was almost a laugh. Akaashi knew Bokuto was about to ask. Bokuto always asked.

“Keiji.” Bokuto pushed into him, spoke against Akaashi’s lips. “Keiji, you’re amazing.” He always overused Akaashi’s given name, when he had the chance. He knew that, and he didn’t intend to stop. He liked the way it felt on his tongue, like a honeyed purr. “I love you so much, Keiji.”

Akaashi said nothing, but when Bokuto kissed him, Akaashi returned the gesture with fervor. His mouth was hot against Bokuto’s, the slide of his lips absolute bliss. Bokuto licked into Akaashi’s mouth, rolled his hips in a thrust, and tasted the barest hint of a moan. 

Akaashi was quiet, but Bokuto still knew when he was doing something right. 

The thrust of Bokuto’s hips was fluid, striking deep but at a slow rhythm that enhanced the slide of skin against skin. He pulled back from the kiss to watch Akaashi’s face, the flutter of his lashes, the gentle part of his lips, the way his eyes found Bokuto’s and stayed there.

They weren’t fucking. Bokuto had never fucked Akaashi. He took care of him, loved him, _cherished_ him.

“Koutarou.” 

Bokuto’s breath caught. Two _Koutarous_ in one night had never happened.

Akaashi gazed up at him, his stare hazy but still focused on Bokuto’s face. “Please.”

That was all he needed to say. Bokuto kept the slow rhythm of his hips, reached between them to touch Akaashi in just the way he liked. 

Akaashi tilted his head back, mouth falling open around a gasp. 

“You’re perfect.” Bokuto whispered the words, reverent, as he moved his hand. “You’re perfect, Keiji. I’ll love you forever, you know that? Until I die. Even after, probably.”

“Koutarou…”

Bokuto’s breath caught, warm flooding his veins. “Forever, Keiji.” His thrusts became uneven, rhythm faltering. “I just… ah… _Keiji_.”

Even as he unraveled, smothered by bliss, he didn’t look away from Akaashi, didn’t stop touching him until there was a spill of heat across his fingers and Akaashi made a low, raspy sound as his hips jolted off the bed.

Bokuto watched the gradual shift in Akaashi’s face as he came down, the tension melting away and leaving only soft contentment behind. Bokuto used his clean hand to trace Akaashi’s cheekbone. 

“’Kaashi.”

“Hmm?”

“We should’ve held off on that shower.”

Akaashi’s mouth curled with the hint of a smile. “Perhaps we should have. Another quick one won’t hurt.”

This shower was better than the last, because the two of them shared it. Akaashi kept his wrapped hands elevated, away from the water, and allowed Bokuto to clean him off. When they were mostly dry, and Bokuto had inexpertly changed the sheets in a way that left too many wrinkles, the two of them slipped into bed again. Bokuto sought out Akaashi’s warmth, and Akaashi went willingly. They entwined in a loose tangle of limbs, Akaashi carefully positioning his hands to avoid uncomfortable contact.

Bokuto pressed a kiss against Akaashi’s shoulder. Weariness dragged at the edges of his hazy brain, pulling him down quickly. “G’night, ‘Kaashi.”

“Goodnight, Bokuto-san.”

There was a pause so long that Bokuto barely dragged himself back from the edge of sleep to whisper, “Thanks for staying with me.”

Akaashi rolled further into him. The last thing Bokuto heard before he drifted off was Akaashi’s low murmur.

“I’ll always stay with you, Koutarou.”

  
  
  
  
  
Despite the plan that Akaashi hatched to pin down the identity of the informant, they didn’t find him immediately, or even over the next couple of weeks. Another gambling ring got busted, and although most of the Fukurodani men escaped out the back door, a few of them joined the first batch who were still sitting in jail, waiting for a court date. Bokuto was still working on a way to get them out of legal trouble with minimum consequences, but more important than that was finding the informant and stopping him before even more men got arrested.

It was twenty-three days after the first raid when they reached a breakthrough. It was nearing midnight and Bokuto was at Kuroo’s office, listening to Kuroo ramble on about legal processes and procedures. He was reviewing potential ways to get their men out of trouble, and he was especially adamant about it since some of Nekoma had gotten caught in the crossfire. 

Bokuto was listening, but that didn’t mean he knew exactly what Kuroo was talking about.

“But in order to get the incriminating evidence dismissed, we have to challenge their right to entry. That would all depend on exactly what the police heard while the informant was wired up. That in itself could be an issue, because maybe it infringes on privacy rights, but maybe it doesn’t. We would need to hear the recordings, and the police won’t hand those over easily, not unless I’m officially hired as someone’s attorney. If I do that then it makes me look suspicious because everyone at the federal court knows those low-level scrubs can’t afford my services.”

Kuroo paused and raised a brow at Bokuto, as if waiting for a response. Bokuto glanced to Akaashi, who gave a subtle nod. If Akaashi knew what Kuroo was talking about, that was good enough for Bokuto. 

“Right,” said Bokuto. “Definitely.”

Kuroo grinned and switched his attention to Akaashi. “What do you think?”

“I think you need to pay someone off to get you the recordings before you go any further,” said Akaashi. “If they’re in your favor, get some low-level attorney to file the motions instead of doing it yourself. If they’re not, find a way to destroy the evidence. Nothing will stand in trial without it, and the informant won’t be willing to testify, for his own safety.”

“Right there,” said Kuroo. He pointed at Akaashi, teeth flashing in a grin. “That’s why I like you. I have an officer in my back pocket. All he needs is a little nudge and he’ll get the recording for me. We just have to-”

Bokuto’s phone chimed, and he patted at his pockets until he found it. Washio’s name flashed across the screen, and Bokuto accepted the call, relieved to have an excuse to tune out of Kuroo’s strategy session. “Hey, hey, Washio.”

Washio didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “I know who sold us out.”

Bokuto sat up straight, shock buzzing down to his fingertips. “How?”

“One of my men saw him get out of a cop car two blocks from one of the Akihabara rings. I called down there and they confirmed he just went in. I’m on my way to get him now.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Bokuto glanced to Akaashi, who was sitting so close that he’d probably heard Washio’s voice through the phone. “Wait outside. Don’t go in until I get there. Set up some of your guys a couple blocks out to watch for the cops.”

“You got it, boss.”

The call ended and Bokuto stood, already halfway to the door before he spoke again. “Come on, ‘Kaashi. We have somewhere to be.”

“Want me to tag along?” asked Kuroo.

Bokuto considered that. He usually liked having Kuroo around, but this didn’t seem like the time for it. This was a leak in Fukurodani, and even though some of Kuroo’s men had gotten caught in the net, it was still Bokuto’s problem to solve. “Nah, we’ll handle it. I’ll update you later.”

“Alright, call if you need me.”

Bokuto nodded, but he didn’t plan to call. Kuroo had given Bokuto his position, had set him up well and helped him out along the way, but Bokuto was a _Kumicho_ now, too. 

He had to fight his own battles, and he planned to win.

  
  
  
  
  
It took them half an hour to get to Akihabara. Bokuto had his driver pull into the parking garage across the street from the gambling ring, which was hosted in the basement level of a nightclub. It was a good cover. So many people went in and out that it was impossible to tell who was there for dancing and drinking and who was there for a little something more.

Washio was waiting with a small group of his best men. He dropped his cigarette on the ground and stomped it out with the heel of his shoe as Bokuto approached. “No cops yet. They must not be planning to do the bust tonight. Probably just getting enough intel to justify it.”

“Good,” said Bokuto. “One of Onaga’s guys runs this ring. I had Onaga call and tell them to take a break with the bets, so if any cops are listening in, they won’t hear enough to rush the place.”

That had been Akaashi’s idea. He always had good ideas.

“What’s the plan?” asked Washio.

Bokuto told him, and when they crossed the street to approach the nightclub, it was with purpose. When the bouncer caught sight of Bokuto, he stepped aside immediately. Even if he’d never seen him personally, Bokuto had enough of a reputation that most men involved in Fukurodani recognized him at a passing glance. Even if appearance hadn’t been a factor, the group of them marching in with grisly determination, dressed in the dark suits preferred by the yakuza, would have been suggestion enough of their identity. 

Bokuto let Washio lead the way, because even though Onaga was in charge of this particular venue, Washio had visited every ring currently operating in Tokyo. It was his specialty, and he was valuable because of it. 

Washio led them down a set of stairs behind the bar, and the atmosphere shifted all at once from loud music and drunken dancing to cool whiskey and cigarette smoke. They passed another pair of bouncers, these sturdier than the one assigned to the front door of the club. They stepped aside without a word, and as Washio and the rest reached the stretch of card tables and small roulettes, the bouncers stepped back into place. 

They were there to stop uninvited guests, but Bokuto knew they would stop someone from running away too, if necessary.

The gathered men went quiet at the sight of them, a flicker of unease passing through them like a current. Bokuto eyed them as he walked, looking for guilty faces.

Washio made a gesture to the men he’d brought, and they surged into motion. They seized a man out of the crowd, forcing a gag into his mouth as they dragged him forward to face Bokuto. One of them ripped the man’s shirt open, buttons plinking to the concrete floor.

The man’s name was Ono. Washio had told Bokuto that before they’d left the parking garage. As expected, when Ono’s shirt was peeled back, there was a wire taped to his chest.

Bokuto gave the order with a quick jerk of his head. One of Washio’s men yanked the wire, dragging the recording device from where it had been tucked away beneath the edge of Ono’s pants. The man handed it over to Bokuto, who frowned at the small black box. It looked harmless in the palm of his hand, but such an insignificant thing could bring Fukurodani to ruins.

Ono tried to say something, but the words were muffled into incomprehension. The gag had been necessary, so he couldn’t alert the police that there was a problem. Maybe this was the sort of device that only recorded conversations, or maybe it was the type that an officer could listen in on in real time. Either way, the safest thing was to destroy it, and that was what Bokuto did.

He dropped the box onto the concrete floor and crushed it beneath his heel. It gave with a satisfying crunch, and when Bokuto kicked it away, the box was a mess of wires and broken plastic. 

“It has come to my attention that you sold out two of our rings to the police.” Bokuto didn’t have to raise his voice. Everyone had gone silent. “I thought I’d have a chat with you about that, but there’s no point, is there? Obviously you’re guilty.”

Ono shook his head, struggling futilely against the man who held his arms behind his back.

Bokuto tilted his head. “Take off his gag.” Someone stepped up to do as he said. Ono sucked in a breath, but before he could speak, Bokuto said, “Careful what you say. I stop listening when you lie.”

“Bokuto-san.” Ono’s voice was raw with panic. “It’s not what it looks like. I only-”

Bokuto drew a fist back and slammed it into Ono’s jaw. Ono’s head snapped to one side, the force of the blow knocking the words from his mouth. “I told you,” said Bokuto. His knuckles stung, but not badly. “No lies. I’m done.” He took a step back and glanced over his shoulder. “Akaashi?”

Akaashi inclined his head.

“He betrayed Fukurodani.” Bokuto said that with a little more volume, to make sure the message was received. “He betrayed _me_.”

Ono tried to speak, but one of the men crammed the gag back into his mouth.

“Fukurodani has no sympathy for traitors,” said Bokuto. He remembered a time, not too long ago, when he’d had a different outlook. When men had stolen from him, he’d cut them off and sent them on their way. He hadn’t wanted to be responsible for their lives, hadn’t wanted to resort to bloodshed. That wasn’t the way he liked to do things.

A brutal lesson had shown him that a peaceful method didn’t always work. Akaashi had taught him that, and he’d made a terrible sacrifice to do it.

Akaashi had given too much for Bokuto not to learn from it.

Bokuto put a hand on Akaashi’s shoulder. “Get rid of him.”

Akaashi gave him a look. In that light, his eyes appeared pitch black. 

He gave a slight nod and stepped forward, Bokuto’s hand slipping off of his shoulder. Akaashi bit down on the edge of his glove and tugged it off with his teeth. He slipped it into his pocket and reached inside his coat, drawing out a matte black handgun. He used his left hand, because he couldn’t grip a gun properly with his right, but it didn’t matter. Akaashi could shoot nearly as well with his left.

Akaashi approached Ono slowly, with the gait of a predator. He stopped an arm’s-length away and raised the gun, the barrel pointed directly at the man’s forehead. Ono thrashed, but Washio’s men held him steady.

“No one,” said Akaashi, his voice low and lethal, “betrays Bokuto-san.”

His hand was completely steady as he squeezed the trigger.


End file.
